


Whisky and Sympathy

by beetle



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Star Trek: TOS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place right after “The Naked Time.” Sulu's in a funk and Scotty stops by with whisky and sympathy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whisky and Sympathy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All Roddenberry's.  
> Notes/Warnings: Vague spoilers for "The Naked Time."

After his shift finally ends, Sulu makes the long Walk of Shame back to his quarters, noting that he’s not the only one in the corridors hanging his head and avoiding eye-contact.  
  
  
It’s with relief that he locks the door to his quarters and sits on his bed, face buried in his hands.  
  
  
All he wants is a shower then a long sleep, till maybe some of the embarrassment has stopped being quite this acute. Till he can look his crewmates in the eye again without flinching, or wondering if they’re imagining him running around like a half-naked loon, swinging a rapier at them. And even though he’s certain most of the crew affected by the virus feels the same way, he can’t help but imagine that  _his_  sense of embarrassment is much worse than theirs. If only because it’s his own.  
  
  
(And hell, if Riley has his say, videos of them all (Sulu included) would wind up on YouCube, damn the Starfleet Code of Confidence.)  
  
  
Remembering the look on Uhura’s face, though . . . Sulu can’t help but smile a little, mortified as she was and he is. Though he supposes that’s the end of the harmless flirtation between them, fun though it was.  
  
  
 _It’s just as well,_  Sulu thinks with a twinge of regret. Uhura is a beautiful, intelligent, capable woman, but he can’t imagine it ever working between them. She’s a little too solemn, too prone to suppressing her sense of humor and sense of fun. In short, she reminds him too much of his mother, and that way lies several counseling sessions he can very much do without.  
  
  
And truth be told, he half suspects she’s got a crush on Kirk.  
  
  
In any event, he gives himself a sniff and frowns. That shower’s seeming like the best idea he’s ever had. Certainly better than rescuing a fair maiden from her post.  
  
  
Shedding clothes as he walks to his bathroom, Sulu resolves to put the past day behind him. To spend the next day—day  _off_. and bless Kirk for doing that—with his plants, and his own thoughts. Which will most assuredly not be about the viruses and their freaky side effects. . . .  
  
  
Calling himself ten kinds of liar, Sulu stands under the hot water and lets it wash away some of the day’s woes. The rest will just have to go with time and distance.  
  
  


*

  
  
He's just gotten out of the shower—hasn’t even finished drying off—when the door chimes.  
  
  
Muttering to himself about Riley's absolute  _shit_  sense of timing, Sulu quickly towels off and drags his pajama bottoms on. Then he crams his dirty clothes in his hamper; now he’s prepared to have his ear talked off for an hour or two about what happened, before he can actually sleep. “Come in!”  
  
  
When the door slides open, he surprised to see it's not Riley standing there but Scotty, one hand behind his back, looking bemused and not quite sure he should be there. He's only wearing his blacks, so he's off duty. Curious. "Hey, Scotty. What's the good word?"  
  
  
"Whisky," Scotty says then reveals the largest, oldest bottle of hooch Sulu's ever seen. "I've brought some."  
  
  
"That is, indeed, the good word." Sulu grins, jumping to his tired feet. Scotty watches him cross the room, still smiling that bemused smile. He hands over the bottle with a slight bow and a flourish, and Sulu takes it.. Kisses it and hoists it up like a particularly adorable baby. "Oh, you're a life saver, Scotty. Saint Scotty of the Spirits."  
  
  
"Ah,” Scotty waves a hand dismissively, but smiles nonetheless. “I wouldn't go that far. It's not the most respectable vintage, mind you."  
  
  
"Well. Neither is my taste in booze. C'mon in." He leads the way to his small breakfast nook and sets the whisky down in a place of honor, right next to the bonzai tree his sister gave him. “Have a seat, make yourself at home.”  
  
  
“Many thanks,” Scotty says, sitting himself down with a happy groan. He no doubt spends as much time on his feet all day as Sulu spends on his ass, and likewise, off hours, probably looks forward to doing the exact opposite. As does Sulu, but in this case, after this day, he could do with a spot of sitting, himself.  
  
  
He retrieves two jelly glasses with cartoon decals—gifts from his youngest niece, Anza—from a small cupboard set in the nook wall and places them on the table. Sits down across from Scotty, who once more smiles his kind, perpetually tired smile. “So. To what do I owe the honor of your presence and your whisky, good sir?”  
  
  
“Oh,” Scotty makes himself busy with opening the whisky. Per the label, it’s called  _Lagavulin_ , and Sulu’s never heard of it; but he has faith in Scotty’s taste in hooch. “Thought you might need a friendly glass and/or a friendly ear.”  
  
  
“So can half the crew, after today.” Sulu laughs ruefully as Scotty pours. Almost immediately, a smoky, very faintly sweet aroma hits Sulu’s nose and his mouth waters. This whisky is probably stronger and older than anything he’s ever had, even considering that at one point in his Academy career, he practically majored in All-Night Keggers: The Forgotten Discipline. “Not that I’m not glad and grateful to have you here, but seriously: why me?”  
  
  
Scotty caps the whisky and hands Sulu a glass, smiling as he meets Sulu’s eyes. He doesn’t seem as tired as he had just a few minutes ago. “Why not?” he replies, lifting his own glass in a toast.  
  
  
Raising his glass to meet Scotty’s, Sulu grins, though it falters after a few seconds. “To . . . to Joe Tormalen. I didn’t know him very well, but may he rest in peace.”  
  
  
Scotty nods. “ _Cha bhithidh a leithid ami riamh_. May he rest in peace,” he adds solemnly. And before too great a pall can be cast over the proceedings, Sulu hastens to tack on:  
  
  
“And to excellent company and excellent whisky. Cheers.”  
  
  
“ _Slàinte mhath_.”  
  
  
They touch glasses, and take a sip.  
  
  


*

  
  
". . . so then Joe looks at Riley, then looks at Spock and says: 'Since when is being a naked leprechaun a crime, sir?'" Sulu does a more than passable impersonation of Joe Tormalen at his most wry, and Scotty chuckles, shaking his head. "Of course, Spock didn't think it was that funny. Neither did the Golli—Gollo—Gollawog chieftain."  
  
  
Scotty lifts his glass, finds it empty, and frowns. That won’t do at all. "Eh. D'ya ever get the feeling that Riley lad's not all there?"  
  
  
Sulu's eyebrows shoot up under his damp, messy hair. Scotty’s never seen him so disheveled, He wears the look very well. "Huh, it may be better to ask if I ever get the feelin’ that Riley lad's partially there, to begin with. And the answer would be no. But he's a good guy. And one of the bes’ navigators in the Fleet." He pours them a both yet another finger of whisky and they each hold up their glass. "To that descendant of Irish kings, Kevin Riley . . . and to our lovely jewel of a lady! To the Ennerprise!"  
  
  
"Ah, a man after m' own heart," Scotty declares and they touch glasses. As usual, he savors that first sip, while Sulu tips his tumbler back with the same zeal as the newly legal. Scotty’s lost count of how many fingers of Lagavulin they’ve each had, but he feels better and lighter in spirit than he has in a long while.  
  
  
Sulu pours himself another few fingers. “To you!” He raises the glass, knocks back the whole thing in one swallow, head thrown back. Scotty shakes his head again, this time in disbelief, taking another careful sip of his own glass. He’s reaching the boundary between well-toasted and drunk, so now’s definitely the time to be slowing down. For the both of them.  
  
  
"At the rate you're goin', boyo, you'll be snoring before 21:00 hours,” he says. Sulu scoffs and hiccups twice.  
  
  
“Naaaahh. I’ve got a heeeaaarty constitution!”  
  
  
Scotty huffs. “That’s not what you’ll be saying in the morning.”  
  
  
Sulu leans forward as if confiding a secret, damp, dark hair hanging in his eyes. He looks barely old enough to vote, let alone to be so very drunk. "The cap’n gave me tomorrow off to res’ and recupe, so I don’ have anywhere t’be but Hangover-ville.”  
  
  
“Oh, trust me, you’re not gonna be conscious long enough to get  _hangover_  drunk,” Scotty says, knocking back the rest of his own shot. It’ll likely be his last, as  _he_  can’t afford to be hungover, himself. “You’ll pass out right where you’re sitting, and I’ll have to put you to bed.”  
  
  
Sulu rolls his eyes blearily. “Now,  _that_ ’d be a cryin’ shame.”  
  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
  
“Nothin’, nothin’.” Sulu clears his throat and looks suddenly, unbelievably innocent. “Hey, so’re you and McCoy th’ only ones who didn’ get the whammy from that virus?”  
  
  
“Damned near. Most of engineering and security was spared, thank heavens, but the rest of the crew didn’t fare so well. And the poor captain—”  
  
  
“It was Rand, wasn’t it?”  
  
  
“Eh?”  
  
  
Sulu rolls his eyes again. “She’s been making wounded doe-eyes at the captain for weeks, and we all know the captain’s a closet man-whore, so naturally he and she—“  
  
  
“ _Sulu!_ ” Scotty laughs, both amused and horrified, and Sulu laughs with him, a low, evil chuckle.  
  
  
“Okay, okay . . .  _maybe_  nothing happened in  _that_  direction. But c’mon, this is  _Kirk_. Hell, it’s not improbable that he and  _Spock_  would’ve made the beast with two backs if the commander had caught the virus, too. I mean . . . have you  _seen_  the way they look at each other, sometimes?” Sulu waggles his eyebrows in a patently ridiculous way, and Scotty laughs again, but thoughtfully this time.  
  
  
“Hmm . . . the commander  _did_  catch a good dose of it. And he and the captain  _did_  disappear for a while. . . .”   
  
  
(Scotty takes a moment to thank the powers that be that  _he_  didn’t get any of that virus. The last thing he needed was to get caught prancing around, doing God knows what to, or with God knows who.)  
  
  
“Wait-- _Spock_? Commander Starch-Britches had the virus? You’re not serious!” Sulu’s gone saucer-eyed with shock.  
  
  
Scotty nods. “Aye, as a heart attack.”  
  
  
“Well, hell.” Sulu sighs, shaking his own head. “That explains some of that weird tension between them on the Bridge today. Spock had the virus, too . . . sheesh, I wonder if he and Kirk really did do the deed. . . .”  
  
  
“Speculate all you like, boyo, but you didn’t hear any of this from me. I think the poor men’re embarrassed by the whole incident. Especially the commander.”  
  
  
“Tell me about it. I, myself, had planned on bein’ mortified for the rest of ever. But Spock’s level of mortification prolly makes mine seem pretty piddling. Though I’m still kinda . . .” Sulu makes a see-sawing motion with his hand, then lounges back in his chair. Scotty’s eyes slide down his bare chest and abdomen, only to be halted by the waistband of his black pajama pants. He feels a pang of surprise that’s quickly eclipsed by a different feeling entirely.  
  
  
 _Huh,_  he thinks, shaking his head a little like a man who’d been dozing. Then he schools his face into something a little less incriminating. Not that he needs to, as intently as Sulu’s staring into the bottom his glass, as if that’d magically refill it.  
  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too worried if I were you. You looked quite the daring sight,” Scotty says, turning just a little red. He clears his throat and fidgets a bit. “I’ve seen the security footage,” he offers by way of explanation. “So’s most of Engineering, and the half that isn’t firmly infatuated with you now wishes they  _were_  you.”   
  
  
Sulu’s eyebrows disappear under his hair, and his smile is slow and challenging as he looks up. “I see. And which camp do  _you_  sort into?”  
  
  
“Well.” Scotty clears his throat again and decides a change of subject is in order. “And your swash-buckling certainly put the fear into Morello and Cline, let me tell ya.”  
  
  
Sulu’s smile disappears and he groans, standing up shakily. “Don’ remind me! Whoa, I think I need water.” He starts toward the bathroom—or means to. Three steps on, and he weebles and wobbles. Nearly falls down, but for Scotty jumping up to catch him, one arm going around his waist.  
  
  
“Hearty constitution my maiden aunt—c’mon, boyo. You’re for bed.” Scotty hoists Sulu back upright, and Sulu twists in his arms till he can wrap his own around Scotty’s neck. Looks into Scotty’s eyes for a long time, and grins at what he sees there.  
  
  
“Gonna join me, or would you prefer to get me drunker?” he asks and Scotty stiffens, his brow furrowing. Sulu stands on his toes and leans their foreheads together. “Not that I think that’s what you were doing, and not that you’d have to.”  
  
  
“And it’s good you don’t think that, because I would never.” Scotty lets out one Lagavulin-y breath and huffs in another. “Wait a moment, are you . . . making a pass at me, Lieutenant?”  
  
  
“Aye, sir.” Sulu tucks his face into the hollow between Scotty’s neck and shoulder, his warm breath causing shivers to dance their way up and down Scotty’s spine. So it takes a few moments for that  _aye, sir_  to trickle through, and when it does, Scotty feels another pang of surprise that is again eclipsed by a wholly different feeling. One that makes every square inch of skin stand up in gooseflesh.  
  
  
“Hmm. I, em, didn’t know you were . . . that is to say—” Scotty doesn’t know  _what_  he means to say, exactly, caught up as he is in the soft, purposeful kisses wending their way to his ear.  
  
  
“Gender’s never been one of my hang-ups,” Sulu whispers, lightly nibbling Scotty’s ear lobe, laving it, then blowing on it. Scotty shivers again and moans just a little.  
  
  
“H-hasn’t it, then?”  
  
  
“Nope.” Sulu smells of whisky, Starfleet issue shampoo, and clean, warm skin. “And we’re talking way too much when we should be necking.”  
  
  
Scotty tips Sulu’s chin up till they’re looking into each others’ eyes. What  _he_  sees there gives him more courage than any bottle of whisky ever could. “Lad, if we were both a dram more sober, I’d kiss you like I meant it,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking down to Sulu’s lips. Which Sulu licks.  
  
  
“Well, I think you should kiss me, anyway,” he replies huskily, taking the initiative of leaning in. Scotty hesitates, but meets him halfway. The kiss is tentative at first, then growing more heated and awkward as it goes on; their noses bash, their teeth clack, and neither of them know quite what to do with their arms and hands.  
  
  
Finally, Sulu laughs his way out of the kiss and leans their foreheads together again.  
  
  
“God, that was  _awful_ ,” he says, still laughing.  
  
  
“Not my best work, I’ll grant you,” Scotty admits, only slightly nonplussed. His hands settle on Sulu’s waist. “But if I haven’t put you off, I’d like to try it again sometime. Perhaps after dinner. . . ?”  
  
  
“How’s tomorrow evening sound? My quarters, around 20:00 hours? I’ll make you dinner.” Sulu tilts his head consideringly. “And I should warn you in advance: I expect you to put out.”  
  
  
Scotty sighs with mock-exasperation. Mostly mock. “You’ve a one-track mind.”  
  
  
“But I promise you’ll like where that track leads.” Sulu’s nose brushes Scotty’s in an Eskimo-kiss that’s probably accidental, but no less nice for it.  
  
  
Then they’re kissing again, and this time isn’t nearly as awkward as the first. This time, tongue and teeth, hands and arms, and even noses know just where to go. And they keep going there for a long time, until Sulu starts tugging them toward his bed.  
  
  
“You really should stay the night,” he breathes, and Scotty  _hmm_ s thoughtfully, then scoops up Sulu—who yelps like a startled puppy and clutches at Scotty in surprise—in his arms and carries him to the bed, laying him down gently with a grunt.   
  
  
“And  _you_  should get some rest,” Scotty says, straightening with a hand at the small of his back. Sulu glares at him for a moment, then reclines on the bed, appearing once more unruffled. “Saints preserve—you weigh more than you look to.”  
  
  
“I’ve got good, solid bone-structure.” Sulu grips the headboard, stretches out, and does his best to look inviting. In Scotty’s professional opinion, he succeeds admirably. “Wanna give it a test drive?”  
  
  
Scotty rolls his eyes and sits on the bed, getting octopus arms and a thorough kiss for his troubles. But he breaks it after a minute to look Sulu in the eyes. “Gladly. When you’ve sobered up.”  
  
  
“Scotty—” Sulu whines, pouting like a kid on Christmas Eve.  
  
  
“Hikaru.”  
  
  
Sulu blinks at the use of his given name and Scotty’s pretty sure it’s the first time he’s called Sulu by it. Hell, half the time he’s sure most of the crew doesn’t even  _know_  Sulu’s given name, because they certainly don’t  _use_  it.  
  
  
“Say my name again?” Sulu asks softly, some of that drunken ardor leaving his eyes as he does. Scotty gives him a wary look, but does as he asks. With what he hopes is the right emphasis on the right syllables.  
  
  
Sulu cups Scotty’s face in his hands and smiles like the sun rising—kisses him one last time. A good-night kiss: sweet and surprisingly chaste. “Tomorrow, at eight?”  
  
  
“It’s a date,” Scotty promises, still feeling bemused, but pleasantly so. He stands up and straightens his blacks and his hair. Sulu watches him with gleaming eyes, giving him a once over that’d make  _Kirk_  blush.  
  
  
“What?” Scotty asks, turning rather red about the face, himself; Sulu smiles inscrutably.  
  
  
“Nothing. Just . . . looking, since I can’t touch till tomorrow.” Sulu purses his lips in thought. “Well, I can’t touch  _you_  till tomorrow, anyway. . . .”  
  
  
Ignoring that last comment, and the way it’s trying to cripple his brain beyond all usefulness, Scotty holds up his hands. “Listen, boyo, how you feel now, and how you’ll feel later may be two different beasts entirely, and I’ll understand if—”  
  
  
“I won’t change my mind, Montgomery.” Sulu stretches and yawns, closing his eyes, smiling like the cat that got the cream. “So stop trying to talk me out of it. ”  
  
  
“Alright. Alright,” Scotty says, dithering in place for a moment before stepping close to the bed again to kiss Sulu’s forehead lingeringly. “Sleep well, Hikaru.”  
  
  
Dark, dark eyes open and look into Scotty’s own. They’re twinkling and playful, and very, very inebriated. “I will. I’ll need my energy for tomorrow night, won’t I?”  
  
  
“Perhaps.” Scotty says as enigmatically as he can. There’s no call being too sure a thing, after all. “Do you think of nothing but sex?”  
  
  
“Hmm.” Sulu yawns again, scratching his chest. “Does swordplay count?”  
  
  
“Probably not.” Scotty stands up, chuckling. “Good night, Hikaru.”  
  
  
“‘Night.” Scotty can feel Sulu’s eyes on him all the way to the door. He wonders if Sulu likes what he sees, until: “You know, I hate to see you leave, but I  _love_  to watch you walk away.”  
  
  
“Oh, go to sleep!” Scotty calls back, laughing, tossing a wave over his shoulder. He knows if he looks back, he won’t be leaving till morning, and though he definitely wouldn’t mind staying, he wants to do this  _right_. So . . . “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”  
  
  
“You’d better!” The door closes on Sulu’s tipsy guffaws, and Scotty, still red about the face, wearily weaves his way to his own quarters.  
  
  


*

  
  
As soon as the door closes behind Scotty, Sulu’s up off the bed, walking with sure, steady feet to the small dining nook.  
  
  
He finishes what’s left of his glass of Lagavulin and Scotty’s, caps the bottle, and puts it in the cupboard.  
  
  
“Hearty constitution, indeed,” he murmurs absently to himself. Then he takes his glass, fills it with water, and goes to bed, still grinning.


End file.
